Near the Thorn
by avenoir
Summary: "Hermione," he whispered, drawing closer. "You left me." Something like grief and hurt flashed in his eyes, and then it was gone, masked in that cold face he mastered so well. She nodded. "You know I had to." Based on Jane Eyre. Post Hogwarts. EWE.
1. Prologue

a/n: This is the first fanfic I've ever written, so I hope you guys enjoy this! Updates should be at least weekly. Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, and credit is given where credit is due.

* * *

August 2, 2016

She couldn't breathe. She gasped and her chest was heaving, heaving, her throat constricted, the air too dry, too thick, too dense. Dark grey light oozed in from the crack underneath the heavy curtains covering the window, and she heard an uneven, agitated shuffling from outside of the bedroom. She turned, hesitated, stopped, head halfway tilted towards the wooden door, bitter, biting tears welling her eyes and a pained grimace twisting her features. She squeezed her eyes so tightly shut she saw white spots and felt the tears finally fall down, give in, surrender a stinging trail. The silence became excruciating and her mind was screaming- she tried to suck in another breath, gulping and grappling, but it was too heavy, too suffocating, and her chest hurt; she couldn't breathe.

Finally pushing back the heavy curtains, she glanced out the window, gauging the sun's slow, steady rise, dawn coming into view. She spied a small, crooked wooden stool out of the corner of her eye and quietly picked it up, placed it before the windowsill, climbed upon it, even as her limbs protested every movement.

Again, the agitated shuffling on the other side of the door.

This time, she didn't stop herself from turning fully towards the doorway, staring at the wooden structure as if she could see through it, as if she could see the man slumped heavily against the other side, one desperate hand reaching upwards, palm pressed forcefully flat against the surface as if he could will the energy to blast it away to reach her. An anguished groan escaped through the crack between the door and the floor, reaching Hermione's ears.

Frantically, she picked at the edges of her shirt, hoping to whatever deities were up there that she was making the right decision. To leave him. To leave the one man she suspected she would ever truly love. Her heart told her to stay, to comfort him, to reassure him with understanding words and everlasting promises. Her head told her to leave, to find herself, to be the independent woman she had always prided herself on being.

Torn, she glanced between the doorway and the window. Both openings, she noted. Just to very different places. One would lead her to the man she loved, a life she was familiar with, while the other would lead her to new people, and an unfamiliar journey.

"No," she decided, "I have to do this." Ever so quietly, as to not tip off the man on the other side of the door of her departure, she swung a leg over the windowsill, not daring to look down the fifteen feet or so below her. She clung to the ledge as she slowly lowered herself down, hanging off the edge, bracing herself for the sheer drop, then letting go. Quickly drawing a slender stick from her pocket, she pointed it at the ground and cast a cushioning charm. Landing softly, she spared a quick look back up at the room which she came from, and noting no sudden noises or yells, quickly ran into the garden, following the well worn paths and far beyond, running, and trying desperately not to think of the life she was leaving behind.

Hermione was far, far away from the place she had once called home by the time the man on the other side of the door ran out of patience and burst into her room. Upon discovering she was gone, and nowhere to be found, he yelled out his grief and heartache into the blank sky, frantically calling her name and mounting his broom, swiftly searching the skies for the woman he could not afford to lose, the woman he cherished more than anything, the woman he _loved_.

* * *

Hermione was certain that she was lost. She had been running blindly for the last few hours, stopping every once in awhile when she felt like her lungs were going to explode. She was sore, disgustingly sweaty, and absolutely miserable. And on top of that, her thoughts kept returning to the blasted man she had left behind.

She sniffed, and promptly burst into tears, sinking into the grass below her, uncaring that her clothes were getting dirty. It was hardly the most pressing of her concerns at the moment. Giving into her temptation to cry, she curls up and gasps for air, feeling like weights were pushing down on her lungs and that she couldn't _breathe_ , couldn't function, couldn't do _anything_ without collapsing in on herself. She admits that she had grown dependent on him, that the temptation of having someone take care of her and comfort her had been too irresistible after all the years she had spent alone, and that she really only had herself to blame. He loved her, she knew. She also knew that she loved him. But she had to do the best thing for herself, to put herself before others.

The rain came with the realization, and she tilted her head, let the cleansing water trickle down her eyes, her mouth, streaming into her hair and pulling the mass of curls taut, stretching slowly down the length of her back with the increased weight of the water. Conjuring a glass, Hermione guided the droplets into the container, before tipping it into her mouth and letting the drink refresh her. She sat there for awhile, listening to the pitter-patter of the raindrops before she shivered, drawing her sodden cloak about her small frame.

She casted a simple shield charm, then proceeded to dry her clothes and meticulously run through her soaked hair. Lying down, she stared up at the night sky, automatically seeking out his constellation, drawing comfort from it.

* * *

She saw him in the shadows, his pale hair glinting in the moonlight, watching her.

"Hermione," he whispered, drawing closer. "You left me." Something like grief and hurt flashed in his eyes, and then it was gone, masked in that cold face he mastered so well.

She nodded. "You know I had to."

He turned away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Hermione studied him with careful eyes, as if he would disappear if she made any sudden movements. His profile was highlighted against the dark wall, aristocratic nose and chin tilted in that arrogant look she knew so well.

"Did you?" he finally says, leaning over her.

She doesn't answer, but reaches out for him, and he steps back, away from her. She feels the distance like a blow to her chest, and limply, her hand falls back to her side, and she looks down at her feet. "You left me," he says again, and this time it doesn't sound like a plea, but more like an accusation.

A fire, small, but bright, flares to life in her chest. "Yes, well, you weren't exactly honest with me either, were you?" she snarls back.

"I was going to tell you," he fires at her, tone angry but eyes wounded, cutting her with their anguish.

She reaches out for him again, trying desperately to cup his cheek, to slide her fingers through his silky hair, to touch touch touch and _feel_ again, even it if is hurt, even if it is anger and pain. Anything would be better than this hollow numbness that has invaded her body, crept into her soul and made brittle her bones. She thinks that this one touch might break her.

It's worth it though, and she takes the risk, fingers seeking his warmth, the contradiction to his outwardly cold nature. But the second her hand touches his skin, he disappears, and she wakes up. Numb. Wet. And completely and utterly alone.

* * *

Weak with hunger and nausea, she collapsed at the top of the hill, struggling to breathe. It had been days since she had left, and she had not found any signs of life on her journey through the moors. She was ready to give up, to die. _Brightest witch for nothing,_ she thought with rather a sardonic edge. Her magic had failed her, as she had no strength to cast even a simple _lumos_ , much less a locating charm, or any type of spell to help her. And despite it all, she refused to go back, to admit defeat. She would rather die here, alone and cold, than to turn back and settle and concede. It reminds her of the days on the run with Harry, the dirt, the cold, and the fear, pressing in all around her and consuming her whole. _I defeated one of the world's darkest wizards, and now I'm struggling to even get up,_ she thinks.

Pushing herself back up, nails biting into the dirt and windswept hair loose around her face, she stumbled to her feet, clutching her cloak tighter around her, as if it could stop the shivers from wracking her body. "God," she whispered to herself, maybe just to hear the sound of her voice again, after days of nothing but the crackle of thunder and lightning, and the howling of the wind.

She forced herself to keep walking, even though she wanted nothing more than to lie down and weep until she was exhausted and dead and free.

She shivered. And then spied something small and dark in the distance. Squinting, she tried to make out the shape against the grey light of morning. Her logical mind quickly deduced that it was a small cottage, but she was reluctant to accept her observation, to let hope flood her body, because she knew it would be all the more disappointing if it was a mirage and she was hallucinating.

But no, it was a small cottage, and judging by the thin stream of smoke rising up through the chimney, it was occupied. Maybe they would help her. Maybe she could be saved.


	2. The Beginning

January 1, 2016

She stood in front of a roaring fireplace, a pinch of green powder between her fingers. She's too close to the flames, but she doesn't feel any of the heat, staring into the hypnotic licks of fire, flashing yellow and red, reminding her of the fragrant poppies and roses she picked as a child. Lost in thought, she doesn't realize Professor McGonagall had walked up behind her until a soft tap is felt on her shoulder. "Hermione," she says, "what's wrong?"

She turns abruptly, meeting the worn and tired eyes of her teacher. Hermione had never thought of McGonagall as old before, but in that moment, she realized that the leaving of her favorite student was taking a far greater toll on the professor than she had previously thought. "Nothing," she quickly amended, shaking her head and feeling her curls bounce vigorously around her shoulders. "I was just lost in thought, as always," she laughs slightly, reminiscing over the many times McGonagall has caught her this way.

"Are you nervous?" she asks, then clarifies, "for your new job, I mean."

"No," Hermione chews on her lip, considering, "not to brag, of course, but I do rather think myself capable of teaching a young child, especially in the courses that Malfoy –Mr. Malfoy– has recommended and asked for."

"Yes, of course," the elder witch replied, "you are more than qualified to do so. I suppose I really meant to ask whether or not you were satisfied with your new position, especially with, well, Mr. Malfoy himself. I admit that I was rather surprised when I learned that you did not want to go into the Ministry and take up a researching position there– I'd imagined that you'd flourish in that environment."

The professor doesn't notice Hermione grimace slightly at the last statement, "Yes, well, after the war ended –after _Harry_ , she thinks– I find myself wanting to perhaps settle down for awhile, look for a job that isn't too much stress."

"And you think that this job with Mr. Malfoy is the way to do so?" McGonagall asks, a bit of a disbelieving expression written across her face.

"It'll be a challenge, and a distraction," she replies, "and besides, I've been wanting to forgive and forget –it has been five years since the war, after all– and I think that getting to know Malfoy a little better will be the way to do so. He did betray the Dark Lord, after all, and defect," she says thoughtfully, "and I imagine that such a deed takes some sort of courage or change in mindset. But I think I'll leave the post as soon as I believe that I've done my duty, and let go of my past hatreds and my ghosts, whatever they may be."

"That's a wise notion," her mentor seemed impressed, as if she secretly yearned to do the same.

Hermione simply nods and turns back to the flames. "I suppose I should be going now," she stares absently into the fireplace once more, before shooting the professor another brilliant smile, "I wouldn't want to be late on the first day."

"Yes, yes," McGonagall remarks, "it's never a good thing to be late. I trust I will hear from you?"

"Of course," and in a rare show of emotion, the old professor gives her protégée a matronly hug, full of warmth and motherly love, something that Hermione had rarely, if not ever, experienced with her own relatives. "Oh," she gasps out, surprised, before she returns the embrace.

"I will miss you, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall returns to formalities, "good luck with Mr. Malfoy, and do visit often."

"I will," she promises. "Of course I will." And before she can think about it any further, she tosses in the pinch of Floo powder, and steps into the green flames, shouting the name of her destination and praying fervently that all would be well.

* * *

Draco Malfoy had certainly made some improvements to Malfoy Manor in the last five years, Hermione mused, as she stepped out of the ornately carved fireplace and into what she assumed was the sitting room. For one, he had decimated almost an entire wing of the manor, as well as many other separate rooms, dedicating much of his inheritance to rebuilding a new home, one uninhabited by ghosts of the past, free from the horrific memories of war.

The parlor in which she herself had been tortured was one of the areas he had destroyed. He hadn't rebuilt it though, according to the Daily Prophet, who had headlined the interview with Malfoy. When pressed why, he had simply shaken his head and said, "There are some things better left destroyed."

That was part of the reason Hermione had even considered his request to tutor his son. That, and the fact that she had learned to trust her gut instinct. She had seen proof of his change in his changing of loyalties, and the way he had behaved on missions during the war. He was polite, if not cold, and utterly stoic.

She was curious.

It all matched up rather well, she thought. By taking this job, she could finally be away from the press, the swarm of people who always asked how she was doing as the last member of the renowned Golden Trio, if she had moved on from her grief and mourning.

Truth be told, she hadn't. She had just gotten very, very good at pretending she was. The mornings where she couldn't even find the motivation to get out of bed, the afternoons spent smoking above bridges, daring herself to jump, and the nights when she drank herself to oblivion were a testament to that. In the public eye, she was Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, unstoppable, golden, and Gryffindor's beloved princess. At home though, where no one could see her, she was miserable, lost, defeated, and left drowning in her sorrows –or literally in alcohol– with no family nor friends.

By taking this job, she could get away from herself.

She needed the distraction, needed the challenge that Malfoy could present to her. Hell, she was so desperate to save herself that she _wanted_ to fight with him, wanted him to inspire something other than numbness and hatred within her.

That's all she had known, for the past five years.

And she was done with it. "New year, new me," she sighed to herself, repeating the trite old phrase that she abhorred.

A house-elf appeared in front of her with a loud crack. "Good afternoon, Miss," the diminutive creature stared up at her with wide eyes. "Master Draco is not currently at home, and he sends his apologies. He will be back within a few short days; he had an emergency he needed to take care of. He also says that you are welcome to stay in the manor until he returns."

 _It was rather rude of him to not give me advance notice_ , she thinks, but she was loath to let the child –Scorpius, she reminds herself– be alone for a few days, even with the house-elf watching over him. And besides, she needed someone, or something, to stop her from falling back into her bad habits. "That will be fine," she finally nods, "I will have to go and retrieve some of my things from my flat, though."

The house-elf stops her. "Master predicted Miss would say that, and he has asked me to prepare some things for you. They should be in your bedroom now," she snaps her fingers.

"Oh," Hermione thinks this over in her mind, "yes, that is very gracious of him. Thank you."

"If you would follow me, Miss," the house-elf walks in front of her, gesturing for her to follow. Hermione absently noted the little toga the elf wore and the fact that she seemed to be very fond of "Master Draco".

"This is your room, Miss," she bowed and looked expectantly at Hermione.

"Thank you," she looks around the spacious room, taking in the luxurious furnishings and sense of haughty grandeur that it emanated. "May I ask where Scorpius is?" she continued.

"He is in his room, Miss, but I can get him if you'd like."

"Would it be alright if I was taken to his room instead? I'd like to see where it is," _so I don't get lost forever in here_ , was the unspoken thought.

"Of course," the elf bowed, and turned to walk away, Hermione trailing dutifully behind the little figure. "It's not too far from here," she continued, turning a corner and heading towards a long spiraling staircase, "Master Draco wanted to keep him close to you, but not so close that you would be disturbed if he were to fuss."

"That's– that's very kind of him," she said, "but it's really no bother. To be honest, I almost think that him being too far away would be more of a distraction than him being too close."

"Would the Miss like a new room then?" she inquired, "I can prepare a new one for you."  
"No, no, it's quite alright," Hermione reassured, "I'll only be staying for a few days anyways, and I'm sure he's quite safe at night."

"Mopsy," a little voice shouted, "Mopsy, is that you?"

"Yes, Master Scorpius," the house-elf replied. A boy came running out, no more than four years old.

"Who's that?" he pointed at Hermione. She smiled, studying the way Malfoy's son was almost an exact copy of him, from the pale blonde hair right down to the pointed chin.

"I'm Miss Hermione," she kneeled down to his height, and reached out a hand to him, "I'm to be your governess."

"Gov –governess?" he stumbled over the word. She nodded with a smile. "I'm Scorpius," he announced proudly, chest puffed out and the familiar Malfoy arrogance in his expression –a rather pompous look for a four year-old– nearly drawing a laugh out of her.  
"Did your daddy tell you I would be here?" she soothed a hand over his fine blond hair.

He shook his head vigorously, still beaming at her. "No, daddy said he was going on a trip and that's all. Will you play with me, Miss Hermy?"

She cringed internally at the butchering of her name –rather like Victor, she thought with a rueful smile– but nodded regardless, standing up once more. "Are you going to show me to your room, Scorpius?"

He grinned, an infectious, happy look stealing across his face, "Yes, yes, and then you're going to play with me," he pulled at her hand.

"Okay," she promised, "okay, Scorpius."

* * *

a/n: this chapter hasn't been edited yet! it's rather short, I know, but it'll start to get a bit lengthier from here on out. reviews are very much welcome!


	3. New Meetings

January 4, 2016

Scorpius Malfoy was a rather bright child, Hermione mused, as she looked over his lettering, the little boy in question fidgeting in his chair and trying not to glance out the window. "Well done, Scorpius," she praised, "you may go play in your room now."

"But I want to play outside," he whined, tugging at her arm.

"Scorpius, you know that I can't play with you right now. I have some things to do, and I know that your daddy wouldn't want you outside without me."

He pouted, "Then come outside with me so we can play."

She shook her head. "Maybe in the afternoon, okay? I really have to finish some work, Scorp, and I can't do that when you're outside. You can play in your bedroom, or the room with all your toys."

Still pouting, the little boy walked off to his room, feet dragging along the way. She smiled– he was exactly how she had imagined Malfoy to be when he was younger.

Surprisingly enough –or perhaps unsurprisingly, if Hermione were to truly think about it– Scorpius had learned the rudimentary basics of French, and was fairly proficient in English. Malfoy had insisted in his letter that his son be taught the language, and seeing as how the Malfoy name and family had originated in France – _Malfoi, meaning bad faith_ – she understood the reasoning behind it. Hermione herself was fairly decent at the language, having picked it up the year before she traveled to France with her family, and she found it useful, especially while studying obscure magical terms or researching the etymology behind certain spells.

He had taken to her rather well, Hermione thought, relieved despite herself. Every morning before breakfast, he ran into her room and jumped on her bed, shouting for her to wake up, saying, "Miss Hermy, Miss Hermy, it's time to play!" The first time he had done so, Hermione had woken up with her hair wild and eyes fearful, wand drawn, before she'd realized where she was and what she was doing. The reflexes of war never truly left them, she mused.

But she wasn't one to dwell much on the war. At least, not if she could help it. Not after what it had cost her. _The price to pay for victory_ , she thought bitterly.

"Mopsy," she called.

The house-elf appeared with a resounding crack. "Yes, Miss?"

"Could you check on Scorpius please and make sure he's alright? I have a few errands I need to run, and I will be leaving the manor for about an hour," she informed the elf.

"Yes, Miss, Mopsy will take care of Master Scorpius, yes, yes," she bowed so deeply that her ears nearly brushed the floor, and then straightened back up, waiting any further instruction.

"Thank you," Hermione gathered up her books from the large wooden desk and sealed the letter she was writing to McGonagall in a creamy manila envelope.

She walked out to the owlery –because _of course_ the Malfoys would have their own set of owls– a separate building from the Manor, but still within the grounds, admiring the pale light casted down on her and filtered through the trees. The Malfoy's owlery was magnificent, she had to admit, as she stood in its shadow and studied the building. Owls hooted softly as she stepped in the doorway, some fluttering down and tilting their heads curiously at her once they landed. They were all very well-bred and cared for, but then again, she had expected no less.

She turned to a beautiful, snowy white owl –like Hedwig, she remembered, and her heart ached– and tucked her letter into a leather pouch on its leg. "To Professor McGonagall, please," she requested, looking into eyes that were painfully familiar. The owl swiveled its head, considering her, before hooting in compliance and taking off. Its powerful wings led it quickly into the open sky, and Hermione watched it wistfully as it escaped.

Striding out of the owlery, she turned back onto the path, relishing the crisp winter air and enjoying the sounds of nature around her. It was strange to think, she mused, that generations of pureblooded Malfoys had lived here, that she was probably the first Muggleborn to step foot on "sacred" ground. Unbidden, her thoughts turned to Malfoy. She had been here for several days now, and he had sent no word, no correspondence, no warning of when he was to come back. Scorpius asked her every day when his daddy was coming home, and Hermione had no response for him but, "He'll be home soon, Scorp, don't worry, and won't you be excited to show him all you've learned?" She had sent Malfoy a letter detailing her appreciation for his thoughtfulness in providing a room and toiletries for her, but had received no reply, meaning that either she was unworthy of his attentions, or he was too busy to reply. She was willing to bet it was the latter, considering that Malfoy no longer held his previous prejudice against blood purity and, honestly, it seemed like Malfoy was a workaholic.

She understood the sentiment. They all had their vices, she supposed– anything to drive away memories of the war, the screams, the destruction, the _death._ She shivered, and fought to keep breathing. The light, which she had admired earlier, now seemed cold, grey, and utterly devoid of warmth.

She turned, noting a disturbance in the air. Peering into the distance, she thought she saw a black shape in the air, heading closer and closer to her. Dismissing it as just another owl returning, she faced forward once more, picking her way along the path. She walked a bit more –fifteen feet, perhaps– before whipping around once more to look at the sky. It didn't take her long to discern that it wasn't an owl at all, but rather a person– a person on a broom, she realizes, heading towards the manor, _towards Scorpius_ , and before she can really think about it, she's whipped out her wand and cast a nonverbal _stupefy!_ at the flier.

She misses. Hermione Granger, talented at all aspects of magic and wandwork –except Legilimency, although she'll never admit that– does not miss. Not after the war, not after the days training in secret as part of Dumbledore's Army, not after everything that her and Harry and Ron went through. The cloaked figure is now swerving rapidly in the air, apparently scanning for the source of the spell, and she takes advantage and quickly casts another stunner at them. They dive swiftly towards the ground to avoid it, and Hermione is reminded of Quidditch games at Hogwarts and feeling her heart beat frantically under her robes and watching Harry reach reach _reach_ for the Snitch to win the game– and then she is jerked out of her thoughts because the flier's hood has fallen off and she has glimpsed that distinctive white-blond hair.

"Expecto Patronum," she cries, and her silvery otter bursts forth from her wand and circles towards Malfoy. He looks startled for a moment before recognizing the Patronus, and then scanning for her in the path below him. Slowly, he descends, and Hermione warily approaches him, hands out in front of her to show that she meant no harm.

"What the bloody hell," he swore, gripping her arm so furiously that she knows there will be finger-shaped bruises on her skin tomorrow. "Are you out of your mind, Granger?"

"Sorry," she breathes, and she means it. "I just, I didn't realize that it was you, and your hood was up and I thought it was an intruder and Scorpius is by himself in the house and I thought you were going to attack the manor and–"

"–okay," he says, and Hermione has completely missed the first half of whatever he said because her adrenaline has completely left her, and all the memories of the war have rushed back, and she needs a drink right _fucking_ now.

"Granger," he says, and she's disoriented and dizzy and she's seeing two Malfoys and nothing makes bloody sense. "Granger," he repeats, shaking her this time, and she thinks that maybe his tone has hint of concern, of worry. _For her_ , she wonders, and shakes her head. _No, not possible,_ she thinks. _Not bloody possible_. And then the world goes dark.

* * *

She doesn't see him until dinner the next day. At first, she is highly embarrassed, having asked Mopsy to recount what happened after she blacked out and was carried in by Malfoy. According to the house-elf, "Master Draco carried the Miss upstairs to her room and then tucked her in bed before seeing Master Scorpius. He told Master Scorpius not to disturb you this morning, because Miss needed to rest."

It was rather sweet of him, she thought, to tell Scorpius not to bother her in the morning, although it wasn't necessary, as she had been up long before the rest of the house was. She had wanted to find him and sincerely apologize for yesterday's, well, mishap –for lack of a better word– and to possibly thank him as well, for treating her so kindly. It was not the first impression she had wanted to make on him, after all these years, and honestly, she was disappointed that she herself had ruined the opportunity. But the elder Malfoy had not been seen all morning nor afternoon, and Scorpius had occupied her time entirely, after finding that she was awake.

But here she was now, seated across from Scorpius, with Malfoy to her left. So far, she had said nothing, simply watching the father and son talk to one another, the latter smiling cheekily and recounting everything he had learned, the former watching his son with an amused expression. "Well, Scorp, it sounds like you've been learning a lot from Miss Hermione," he glances at her briefly before turning his attention back to his son.

She smiles weakly at him, still mildly embarrassed. "I've had a good student," she praised, her smile growing as Scorpius grinned at her.

"I like Miss Hermy," he agreed, nodding sagely at his father.

Malfoy shoots her an amused look, probably thinking of Victor Krum and his woeful attempts at pronouncing her name. "Miss Hermy, is it?" he says.

She glares at him. "I never thought I'd say it, but I think I prefer Granger to that," she sniffs at him. "Only Scorp is allowed to call me that."

He merely smiles at her and turns back to his food.

* * *

It is late by the time the two of them manage to get Scorpius in bed, what with all the presents Malfoy brought him, and the seemingly limitless supply of energy the four year-old possessed. Hermione makes to go upstairs as well, to gather her things and Floo back to her flat, seeing as her presence during nights were unneeded, since Malfoy was home and Scorpius was no longer unattended, but Malfoy stops her. "Wait."

She waits.

"Stay here awhile, and sit with me," he commands, gesturing towards the other armchair, by the fire, swirling the whiskey in his glass.

She isn't one to listen to demands, but she does as he says regardless, feeling that she at least owes him this courtesy, especially considering what he had done for her the night before. She sits primly, fingers twisted together in her lap and ankles crossed demurely. He's staring at the fire, flickering shadows dancing across his skin and his hair falling into his eyes.

Hermione resists the urge to brush the fringe away, and interlocks her fingers tighter.

By firelight, Malfoy seems older and wearier, his face all angles and protruding bones. The pointy chin she remembers from childhood is still there, perhaps a bit softer, and his body is lean and lithe, like a cat's– a seeker's build, she recalls. She wonders what he has gone through in the past five years, and how he has survived the war. It's not a fair question to ask though, because sometimes, she wonders how _she_ has survived the war. Especially since so many others hadn't. _What made me worthy?_ she questions, _what did I do, to deserve to live?_

"Granger," the low voice cuts through her thoughts, startling her. "Stop thinking so much. You're hurting _my_ brain."

Absentmindedly, she realizes that she has been locking her fingers together so tightly that they have turned a rather unappealing shade of purple. She lets go quickly, shaking out her hands so the blood flow returns. Her mind is in utter chaos and she can't focus and she hates the silence, so she opens her mouth and, "Why didn't you just apparate?" is the first thing that comes out.

He looks at her for a moment, confused, and Hermione clarifies, "I mean, why didn't you just apparate into the manor the other day? Obviously I understand that you have wards around your house that prevent others from apparating, but you're a Malfoy."

Malfoy laughs. "Of all the things I was expecting to talk about, that was not one of them. Although in retrospect, I'm really not that surprised at all, Granger. To answer your question, yes, you were correct in assuming I have wards up all around the manor and its grounds, and yes, I could have simply apparated straight into the house, but to be honest, I wanted to fly, relax a little bit. It helps me clear my head. How was I supposed to know that a crazy witch would try and curse me off my broom halfway through?" the last part was said with a slight sneer, which he directed towards her.

She glares at him, golden-brown eyes dancing in indignation. "You looked like an intruder!"

He rolls his eyes and leans forward, his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and his collar loosely unbuttoned. "Yes, I am Draco Malfoy, and I am an intruder," he drawls, and Hermione suddenly remembers a younger Malfoy sneering and telling everyone that "his father would hear about this."

This time, _she_ rolls her eyes.

"So what about Scorpius, then?" she changes the subject abruptly, and watches as he tenses slightly at the question.

"What about him?"

"Tell me about him," she prompts, and he sighs and becomes the older, wearier Malfoy once more.

"I was once married, you know," he begins, staring into the flames once more, and taking a sip from the glass he still held. "It was an arranged marriage, of course, but a marriage nonetheless. My parents had picked the girl, long before I had any say in it, and the contract had been signed, with both of us bound to it, by the time I was at Hogwarts. Even after my parents died, the contract stood, and so we were forced to marry, bending to the will of a bloody piece of paper with our names on it. The contract stated that we had to have a child within the first three years of our marriage, to produce an heir–" at that, Hermione flinched, disbelieving that pureblooded families still practiced these antiquated traditions "–and Scorpius was born in the first year of our marriage. We divorced soon after, as that was the only requirement needed from our union, and we didn't love each other," he finishes bitterly, now watching the amber colored whisky swirl in his glass. "Not that I don't love Scorpius, of course," he looks up quickly at Hermione, meeting her sympathetic gaze.

"I know you love Scorpius," she smiles gently at him. "I can tell, by the way you two talked at dinner tonight."

"She died," he says, out of the blue. Hermione tilted her head towards him, wondering who he was talking about. "My wife– or ex-wife, I suppose" he continues, catching her glance, "she died a few years ago, from a sickness."

"I'm sorry," and she is speaking the truth, because no child should live without a mother. _Not like Harry,_ she adds secretly, in her mind.

He shrugs. "There was really no love lost between us," his tone is casual, but the slosh of his drink against the glass belies his inner turmoil.

She dares to reach her hand out and lay it over his, and he jerks at her touch, surprised. She withdraws it quickly, a blush staining her cheeks, and he catches the tips of her fingers. "Tell me, Granger," and there's a conspirative undertone to his voice now, "do you find me handsome?"

Caught off guard, she replies, "No," and she flushes immediately afterwards, looking away. _He's drunk,_ she thinks, but she does not apologize.

He tilts his head, seemingly surprised, and asks, "Well then, out of all my limbs and features, pray tell what you find unappealing."

She pauses, and then, "Sorry, Malfoy, I ought to have said that beauty is of little consequence." He laughs, and she blushes further.

"Well then, Granger," the corner of his lip turns up slightly, "I think we will get along just fine."

* * *

a/n: still unedited haha but hey an update! reviews, as always, are welcome!


	4. The Fire

February 9, 2016

Hermione woke up abruptly, pressing a hand to her forehead, imagining that she had heard voices in the corridor leading to her room. "Merlin," she breathed, almost inaudibly, her voice swallowed by the heavy silence. The air was stifling in its weight, and Hermione couldn't suck in enough to soothe her rapidly fluttering heart. She peeled back the silken covers, turning and allowing her legs to slip out, feeling them dangle in the air before meeting the luxuriant carpet beneath.

This was not her room.

It was one of many in Malfoy Manor, a different room from than the one she had stayed in while Malfoy was away, slightly larger, perhaps, although Hermione wasn't honestly sure if she noticed much difference. She had thought to move out once Malfoy returned, but he had insisted, saying something about how he had seen how attached Scorpius was to her, and that he would be confused if Hermione stopped staying at the Manor like she had before.

He'd said dryly, "There's more than enough room at the Manor, Granger. What else am I supposed to do with all this space?"

She couldn't exactly argue with that logic– it wasn't as if she really had anywhere better to be. This way, she could save herself the trouble of Flooing, and honestly, she didn't mind Scorpius pouncing on her in the mornings. She had gotten rather used to it, actually.

That, and the fact that in the month she had been here, she had not been drinking as she used to. Sure, she had indulged a few times, but nowhere close to what she had been imbibing before. There were benefits to staying at Malfoy Manor, it seemed.

A door slammed outside, and in one fluid motion, she had swiped her wand from the nightstand and pointed it at the entrance to her room. She had not imagined the voices then. Silence reigned, and Hermione relaxed slightly, shoulders dropping, only to hear a sinister, low chuckle slide between the cracks in the door and through the walls. With a muttered _lumos_ , she quietly dropped her feet to the floor, wincing at the thump they made upon contact. Leaning against one side of the door, she shut her eyes tightly and tried to quell the rising bubble of panic that had lodged itself in her throat. _Danger,_ her mind whispered, _the war,_ it said again, and Hermione needed it to shut up, needed to clear her head of all thoughts and focus on the present.

She breathed, in and out.

Cracking the door open, she peered out into the hallway, looking for any signs of crisis. Seeing nothing, she slipped fully out of her room, still staying close to the walls, just in case. It was eerily quiet, and Hermione was immediately wary. She was sure that she had heard someone laughing, and her mind immediately jumped to the two other occupants of the house– Malfoy and Scorpius. She had to make sure Scorpius was safe, and at least check on Malfoy before she went back to bed. Silently, she walked towards the Scorp's room, her wand still out and ready.

The light from her wand illuminated the seemingly endless halls of the manor, and the extravagant carpet muffled her light footsteps as she approached his room. Slowly, she turned the doorknob, and entered, looking towards the small blond boy sleeping peacefully in his bed. With a relieved sigh, she brushed his baby-soft hair from his fair cheek, pulling his silk sheets up to cover him. _A kicker,_ she silently laughed, remembering the days when she was little and waking up in the middle of the night to find her blankets strewn across the ground.

Quietly, she left him, closing the door behind her. She cast a few wards around his room, ever cautious and still wary, and headed towards Malfoy's room. _Just to secure the house,_ she told herself.

She hadn't gotten far before she started smelling the smoke.

A dense, grey fog had enveloped the hall leading to his room, and Hermione broke into a run, dispelling the smoke with her wand as she went. She burst into his room, paying no attention to any sort of decorum, or sense of propriety, and spied the problem immediately. There were tongues of flame licking up the side of Malfoy's bed, and the carpet was starting to catch on fire as well. "Malfoy," she frantically called, running to his motionless form, "Malfoy, you need to wake up."

"Aguamenti," she directed her stream of water at the fire creeping ever closer, but it wasn't enough. She needed him to wake up and help her. Thinking quickly, she shouted a _rennervate_ at him, watching out of the corner of her eye as he stirred. "Malfoy, you need to help me," she tossed his wand at him, spying it next to him on his pillow.

He coughs, still disoriented, and then notices the encroaching flames. "Bloody _hell_ ," he shouts, jumping off the bed, and casting his own _aguamenti._ Together, the two of them fight back the fire, stamping out the remaining few flickers and dispelling the smoke and smell of charred fabric in the air.

Hermione drops to the carpet –what was left of it, anyway– and turns to glance up at him, the motionless figure still staring at the remains of his bed. "Any closer, and I would've been dead," he finally says, turning to focus on her. She shivers at the hollow look in his eyes. "I hate fire," he murmurs, face twisting into an expression of utter despair and a hint of fear.

She wonders at his words, and then she remembers, and then she is speechless.

"The Room of Requirement," she chokes out, the words an empty reminder of the loss, the tragedy, of the war, and what they all lost. "Fiendfyre." Even though she had never thought Draco to be particularly close to Crabbe or Goyle, she knew that Crabbe's death still struck a chord within him. Within her, too. They had all gone to school together, she mused, and they grew up together. Losing him meant losing their innocence, losing their bravery, losing losing _losing._ It hadn't mattered what side of the war they had been on. It hadn't mattered if they won or lost. They all lost, regardless –in some way or another, they lost.

His nod tears her away from her thoughts. "Fiendfyre," he agrees, and he slides down the side of this bed to join her on the ground, his knees touching hers. She takes this moment to study him, him with the distinctively pale blond hair, the mark, the supercilious sneer, and registers his posture of utter defeat.

His head snaps up quickly, muted grey eyes meeting hers before he breathes out a panicked, "Scorpius," and rushes to his feet.  
"He's fine," she reassures, "I checked on him and put some wards up around his room before I got here."

He holds a hand out to her, slender fingers extended and loose, and she grasps it, feeling the cool metal band of his signet ring against her skin, before pulling herself up. The look he gives her is full of thankfulness, and she is taken by surprise, unused to the sight of him so openly displaying his emotions. _Thank you,_ it says. "You saved my life," his voice washes over her, soothing and calm, and she relaxes. "Hermione Granger," he continues, still watching her carefully, "the brightest witch of our age."

She makes a face, and the corner of his lip twitches upwards, as if he is trying to hide his amusement. Their gazes lock and hold, and she is entranced, curious about who Draco Malfoy really is, what he believes in, who he holds dear. The moment breaks when he turns towards the door once more, twisting his head around and telling her to stay, that he had some things to take care of within the manor, and that he would be back soon. His body is already through the door when he pops his head back in and glances at her, as if to check that she is following his directions.

She is trying to repair his half-burned bed and charred nightstand when he returns. "Reparo," she utters, waving her wand in vague movements, half-aware of what she is doing. She watches as the bed begins to fix itself, pieces coming back together, sheets stitching up, and wishes desperately that it were that easy to fix herself, with a few muttered incantations and a swish and flick of her wand.

He comes up behind her, and brushes the hair off her neck gently. She jumps, and nearly smacks her head into the nightstand. "You stayed," his voice is slightly awed, as if he had not expected her to follow his order. And she supposed his surprise was justified, seeing as _normal, old_ Hermione would have never listened to anyone's commands, much less his.

"Yes," she says.

"I owe you a life debt, Granger," and he sounds like his regular self now, less haunted, more like the proud young boy she had known.

"No," she protests, "you don't owe me anything, Malfoy. I don't want you to owe me anything."

"It's not your decision to make," and he's stubborn, mouth set in a line and eyes glaring down at her.

"It is."

"It's not."

"Is."

"Not."

She crosses her arms over her chest, and pushes her chin up, assuming the haughty pose that she had carried throughout her Hogwarts years. "Is."

He closes the scant distance between them, his hastily thrown on dress shirt hanging off his shoulders, and her breath hitches. Slightly. "Not."

"Malfoy," and she _hates_ how her voice has lost its bossy edge, and become something more of a whimper.

"Granger," he parrots, smirking down at her.

She swallows, and vaguely registers that he is now toe to toe with her, face so close that they could practically be – _no_ , she thinks– and she steps back, quickly, head turned to the side to avoid his gaze.

"Granger," he repeats, voice softer. "I owe you a debt, and I cannot rest until I have paid my due. Please."

She nods, anything to get away, leave, go back to her room. "Okay," she whispers, and it carries through the damp silence of the room. "I should go," she continues.

She feels him move beside her, and then his fingers are on her cheek, turning her head to face him. "Okay," he whispers back. Her hand reaches up to meet his, and dimly, she thinks of how _wrong,_ how _right_ this is.

"I– yes, yes," she takes a step back, still holding his gaze, "yes, I'll go now. His hand slips away, and she feels the absence of his warm touch. "Goodnight, Malfoy." And she takes another step back until she's by the door, and she turns and leaves, cursing her foolishness all the while.

* * *

Valentine's Day, she thinks, is one of her favorite holidays. She fondly remembers the days at Hogwarts, the letters sent by crushes, and the festivities and ornaments that had decorated the Great Hall. She stifles a giggle at the thought of Ginny's first valentine to Harry, and discovers with surprise that thinking of Harry and Ron doesn't hurt as much as she expected it to. "Strange," she murmurs to herself, chewing on her lip in thought.

"Miss Hermy," Scorpius calls, and she turns to look at the little boy. He has paint splattered all over his clothes, and his hands are caked with shades of pink and red.

"Goodness," Hermione sighs, but smiles at him, flourishing her wand and muttering a quick _scourgify_ to rid his clothes of the paint. "Yes, Scorp?" she asks, when she is finished.

"Look at what I made," he proudly holds up his card, grinning a toothy smile and waiting expectantly for her praise. "I made this one for you," he continued.

She's touched. "Scorp, this is beautiful," she takes the card gently from him, studying the heart painted sloppily in the center and the polka-dots embellishing the empty white spaces, along with a picture of what she assumed was herself and Scorp. She laughed at the wild portrayal of her hair –ever a Malfoy, she thought fondly– and traced her finger across the splattered paint, noting the predominance of red.

Scorp throws himself into her arms, and she nearly drops the card, she is so surprised. "I like you a lot," he says, looking up at her with wide grey eyes.

She ruffles his hair and squeezes the boy sitting in her lap tightly. "I like you a lot too, Scorp," she promises, and closes her eyes.

A shuffling at the door causes them to fly open and focus on the intruder. _Malfoy_ , she groans internally, _of course it would be bloody Malfoy_. "Good morning," he says finally, eyes locked on his son snuggling into her embrace, then flicking up to meet hers.

"Hi," she manages weakly.

"Daddy," Scorp scrambles off her lap and runs towards his father, arms up, clearly wanting to be picked up and held. Malfoy obliges and scoops him up, fixing his son's rumpled shirt with the other hand.

"Scorp," he says, "what are you doing?" Hermione watches as Malfoy's gaze takes in the mess on the table, as well as the abundance of paint that has been smeared, well, everywhere.

"He was making Valentine's Day cards," she explains, rising up and cleaning the carpet and desk with a flick of her wand, "it was part of our lesson today."

"And what kind of lesson would that be, Granger?" his tone was slightly disbelieving.

"Holidays," she shrugged. "And art– it's good to develop a child's creativity when they're young."

"If you say so," he replies, and the words are dismissive, but she knows that he is at least amused. "What do you say to a walk?" he asks Scorpius, who wriggles in his arms in excitement.

"Can we play?" he asks hopefully.

Malfoy smiles. "Yes, we can play," he agrees, "but only if you behave and don't run off."

"Okay Daddy," the little boy promises.

The pair are out the door before Malfoy pops his head back in, frowning at her. "Coming, Granger?"

"Oh," she exhales in surprise, and grabs her wand off the table, where she had left it. "I, yes, yes, of course."

"Good," she spies a brief smile on his lips before he's gone, leaving her to quickly follow.

Somehow, she is left alone with Malfoy yet again. _Not quite alone,_ she corrects herself, spying Scorpius running along ahead of them, _but close enough._ She has been feeling awkward ever since she saved him from the fire, but apparently that feeling is not reciprocated, as Malfoy strides along confidently beside her, with none of the hesitation that she exudes.

They are walking along the path leading to the Owlery, the path where she had almost cursed Malfoy off his broom. She flushes slightly, still moderately embarrassed, and Malfoy tilts his head to look at her, seemingly reading her thoughts. "I still can't believe you almost stunned me," he shakes his head. "But you _missed_ ," and it takes a moment before she realizes that he is teasing her.

She huffs and pushes her hair out of her face. "Please," she said. "I haven't had to do that in years."  
"Or maybe, I'm just a naturally excellent flier, and I instinctively dodged your spell," he boasts, pride coloring his voice, and he sounds like the arrogant school boy who had bragged about his father buying brooms for the whole team.

She snorts before she can stop herself –a rather unattractive sound, all things considered– and Malfoy shoots her an incredulous look. "Sure," she says, "but Harry was always better."  
He tenses slightly beside her, unsure if he should continue needling her, or if he should drop the subject entirely. She cringes, knowing that she has slipped up, and suddenly feels unbalanced. Who would've thought that Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, would be talking about Harry Potter, the Chosen One, her best friend, her _brother,_ with Draco Malfoy, their childhood enemy?

Not her, that was for sure.

She was so distracted by her thoughts that she doesn't notice her companion bend down to pluck a flower –a startlingly vibrant _red_ rose– from the path. He twirls the stem around between his fingertips, hissing sharply as the thorn catches his skin, then thrusts the flower to her. "Red would be your color, Granger," and he stops there, muttering words under his breath that Hermione strains to hear. All she picks up is _bloody_ something something and then _Gryffindor princess_ , before he coughs and straightens up. "Happy Valentine's," he finally says. "Although I must say that I think it's a stupid holiday."

She gasps, slightly offended, mainly because she is a closet romantic and she loves the idea of, well, love. "It is not stupid!"

"It is."

"Is not."

"Is."

"Not."

She freezes as a sense of déjà vu washes over her. This was exactly what their conversation had been reduced to before that embarrassing moment a few nights previous. She cringed as the memories of her behavior came up in her mind. God, she had been utterly _out of her mind_ , flirting with Malfoy. There were boundaries set up between them, and she had been dancing exactly on the lines separating them.

Embarrassing, was what it was.

"And let me guess, green is your favorite color," she manages finally, voice coming out slightly distorted. He looks bewildered at the topic change, but doesn't argue with her– surprising, she notes.

"Of course," he agrees, "Slytherin and all."

She nods, "Obviously."

"Right."

"Yes."

"I'm glad we're in agreement then."

"Okay."

* * *

"Story, story," Scorpius tugged at the sleeve of her shirt, demanding her full attention. She smiled down at him, tucking her hair out of the way as she bent over the little boy.

"Okay, but only one, and then you have to be a good boy and sleep, okay?"

He nods in compliance. "What kind of story do you want, Scorp?" she pushes herself off his bed, and walks towards the large bookcase on the other side of his room.

"The Hopping Pot," he jumps up and starts bouncing around on his bed, as if to demonstrate.

Her finger trails along the spines of several books before she finds the well-worn, and familiar cover of _The Tales of Beetle the Bard_. She pulls it out, caressing the leather gently, and admiring the embossed lettering– a special edition, she mused, nothing but the best for the Malfoy family, of course– and heads back towards Scorpius' bed, settling herself next to him. She clears her throat, turns to the appropriate page, and begins, angling the book towards him so he can follow along as she reads. "There was once a kindly old wizard who used his magic generously and wisely for the benefit of his neighbors…"

There are only a few pages left by the time Scorpius falls asleep, so she finishes them anyways, reading them softly, both for herself and the boy next to her. "But from that day forward, the wizard helped the villagers like his father before him, lest the pot cast off its slipper, and begin to hop once more."

Easing the book closed, she sets it on the nightstand beside his bed, before turning to Scorp and tucking him in gently. She spies a small stuffed dragon next to him –rolling her eyes because of _course_ – and places it next to him. He smiles and snuggles next to it in his sleep, gathering the toy close and hugging it tightly, murmuring something about birds and flowers and candy. Straightening his sheets, she stands up and makes for the door, gasping when she runs into something hard.

"Ouch," she mutters, rubbing at a spot on her head.

"Clumsy, Granger," and she looks up sharply at the sound of his voice, and then groans in resignation.

"Were you watching us?" she shoves at him, slightly shaken by the thought of him standing there for God knows how long. "That's a little bit creepy, even for you, Malfoy."

"Back to insults, are we?" he is more than a little amused, judging by the tone of his voice, and she splutters, unable to come up with anything scathing to throw back at him. He grasps her elbow suddenly, roughly. "I want you," he stops for a moment, and Hermione studies him, trying to understand why he is suddenly so flustered. "I want you to teach Scorpius some Muggle literature," he continues, and Hermione lets out a breath she didn't know she had been holding. Genuine surprise churns in her stomach, along with something bitter, something surprisingly like disappointment. _I want you_ , the words echo in her mind, and she wishes he had stopped there.

She refocuses her gaze back on this man in front of her, disbelieving that he is the same boy who tormented her in school, who called her a Mudblood and belittled her friends. _Not the same boy,_ she reminds herself, _for he defected and turned to the Light_. _Or perhaps, the same boy, but a different man._ He stares back at her, looking almost nervous.

Realizing that the silence has stretched far too long, she tilts her head, with a slow, sweet smile stretching across her face. "Of course. Got any in particular?" she asks.

"Whatever you read when you were little, I'm sure is fine," he waves dismissively at her.

She narrows her eyes at him and smirks slightly. "You know, Malfoy, that really doesn't cut the list down much."

"Oh yes, I forgot that I'm talking to Hermione Granger, the _brightest witch of our_ age, who probably read all the books in the Hogwarts library –including the ones in the Restricted section– by first year, and is currently on track to finishing the Malfoy library by next afternoon at the latest," he presses a hand to his chest dramatically, lips twitching.

"Prat," she finally says, after a few moments of watching him struggle not to laugh.

"Thank you," his voice is sincere, "for tucking in Scorp. He really likes you, you know."

"I would hope so," she sniffs, aiming to sound disinterested, but falling rather short.

He smiles, as if he knows exactly why she is trying to avoid him, to cut their conversation short. "You've grown on me, Granger," he relents, "although I must say that I didn't have very high expectations to begin with."

It was a lie and they both knew it. She rolls her eyes at him instead, childishly sticking out her tongue and pulling her arm out of his grasp. "Okay, Malfoy," she replies, "whatever you say."

He smiles again at her, and a warm feeling that she doesn't want to think about blooms in her chest.

* * *

a/n: okay this chapter took me literally forEVER and I honestly was going to save it for tomorrow at the earliest, but I couldn't wait and so now here we are... but regardless, I hope you enjoyed it :) thank you to all the people who've reviewed or are now following this work!


	5. The Visitor

February 27, 2016

He had been gone for thirteen days. Hermione knew because she had been counting, although she would vehemently deny it if anyone were to ask her. Scorpius had been bothering her again with his incessant questions of _when will Daddy be home?_ and she was nearly at her wit's end. He had been unusually fussy when he realized that Malfoy wouldn't be home for awhile, and Hermione spent most of her days distracting him and bribing him with promises that "Daddy" would bring lots of presents home for him –which she knew was not a good idea, as it only reinforced his bad behavior, but really, what was she to do?– and that she would read him extra stories in the meantime.

According to Mopsy, Malfoy had left early for France the morning after Valentine's Day, because of a "business emergency". He'd written a short note to Scorpius about how _Daddy is sorry that he has to leave again, but I will be back soon, Scorp, and we can play all you want when I'm home._

There had been no note addressed to her.

She wasn't exactly hurt over it, although she had to admit that it did sting, at least a little. She'd thought that they'd been making progress, that they were moving on from their childhood rivalries, and were perhaps even becoming _friends_. (The fact that they had almost kissed was beside the point).

He had been gone for thirteen days. She was loath to admit it, but she missed him. She missed his snarky banter, his clear adoration for his son, and his change from the arrogant boy she'd known to the sophisticated man today. She sighed, the fourth one since she had sat down in the upholstered armchair by the window.

Summoning her tea wordlessly, she sipped at the light brew before turning back to her book. She read a few lines before slamming it shut, frowning because it'd seemed like the printed letters were floating off the page and mocking her. She sighed again. _The fifth,_ she thought.

This was not good.

* * *

The sound of the Floo activating drew her out of the kitchen. She had been teaching Scorpius how to bake cookies, with Mopsy frantically fluttering around and wringing her hands, saying, "Miss should not be in here," and trying unsuccessfully to shoo her out.

"I like cookies," Scorpius had told Mopsy, "do you like cookies, Mopsy?"

"I, yes, Master Scorpius," Mopsy had hesitantly nodded, ears flapping around, and Hermione had bitten the inside of her cheek in an effort to keep from laughing at the bemused expression on the elf's face.

"Good," he'd agreed, nodding his own head in imitation, "everyone should love cookies."  
This time, a few laughs did slip from Hermione, at the serious look on the four year-old's face. "Except people with allergies," she'd quipped, picking up Scorp to let him mix the batter and add the chocolate chips to the dough.

He'd scrunched up his nose in thought – _did he get that from Malfoy?_ she'd wondered idly –and looked at Hermione quizzically. "What are allergies?"

She'd sighed, forgetting his age. "Sometimes, some people can't do or eat certain things, like milk, or nuts, because they'll get very sick."

"How sick?" he'd turned in her arms and Hermione had had to wildly duck her head to avoid his swinging hands, still clutching the whisk, which was now dripping batter all over the floor.

"It depends," she'd answered, muttering a _scourgify_ under her breath and wandlessly cleaning up the mess. "Some people get itchy, some people just feel sick, and some people can die."

He'd looked at her with wide grey eyes then, scared. "I'm don't have allergies, right, Miss Hermy?"

She'd kissed the tip of his cute, pert nose and laughed. "No, Scorp, I'm sure you don't." She'd laughed internally at the thought of pureblooded families suffering from something so infuriatingly _trivial_ , so _muggle._

"Miss," Mopsy's little voice had eventually drawn her out of her thoughts. "Master Draco is home."

She'd set down Scorp, who had immediately started wriggling about at the mention of his father, and followed the exuberant child into the sitting room, where the fireplace was. She stepped over the threshold, looking towards the Floo, expecting two figures, a father and son, and then stopped.

Because Malfoy wasn't alone.

Of course, the Malfoys were there, hugging and laughing, but there was a slender woman standing right beside them, with another entourage of people behind her, talking and jabbering along. And she–Daphne Greengrass' little sister, Astoria, Hermione now vaguely recalled –was utterly stunning, with her dark, lustrous hair and long legs. She tugged at her own unruly curls and glanced down at her feet, painfully aware of her plain robes and disheveled appearance.

She must have unconsciously made some sound of distress, for Malfoy gently set down Scorpius and stared directly at her. "Granger," his voice was low, but carried through the room and gradually, everyone quieted. "I miss–" he faltered a bit, eyes darting around the room as if to assess his situation, and he clears his throat before continuing once more, "how has Scorpius been?"

It wasn't what he had originally planned to say, and they both knew it. "Good," she replies noncommittally, tucking a loose strand of hair back, "a good boy, as always."

Scorpius beamed at the praise, holding his arms up to his father in a beg to be picked up again. "Who's that?" he points at Astoria, eyes widening slightly as they took in the other people in the room.

"I'm Astoria," she steps forward and her voice is melodious and sweet, and Hermione thinks that she wants to die, but presses back against the wall instead, knowing it would be rude to flee the room.

"Hi," Scorp waves cheerfully, blissfully unaware of the tension rolling off Hermione in waves.

"Let's get you settled, shall we?" Malfoy calls for Mopsy, and she appears with a _crack_ , turning and bowing to both him and Astoria.

"Miss Greengrass," she squeaks. "It is a pleasure to serve you."

Hermione frowns. She hadn't been greeted this warmly by Mopsy, even though the house-elf had seemed to like her well enough. Astoria ignores Mopsy entirely, turning instead to Malfoy and talking to him. "Where will I be staying?"

"You'll have your own wing," he replied, taking her elbow and guiding her to the doorway, past Hermione. "Mopsy, will you take our guests' luggage to the western wing please?" His arm brushed past hers as he walked by, but either he did not notice or he ignored it as he continued talking to Astoria. She didn't know which hurt more.

The entourage followed afterwards, with Scorpius bringing up the rear. "Miss Hermy," he tugged at her hand, "are you coming?"

She shook her head and forced a smile to her face. "No, I think they'll want some peace. Why don't we finish those cookies and then you can run along to find your daddy?"

At the mention of cookies, his demeanor brightened, and he exclaimed, "And once they're done, we can bring some to Daddy and Miss Astoria!"

Her heart sank a little at the sound of her name. "Yes," she managed weakly, trying to infuse cheer in her voice, "yes, we can bring some to your daddy and Miss Astoria."

* * *

The days were busy, now. Not that they hadn't been before, but there were so many people in the manor now, that it seemed as if the whole house itself had come alive. There were festivities every night, with lavish dinners, and Hermione had the duty of dressing Scorpius for those appearances. He had been surprisingly fussy about it, and she'd practically had to wrestle him into his robes on some nights.

As for herself, she had been taking her dinner in the kitchen for the past week, sensing that Astoria did not want nor need her there. And so far, Malfoy either hadn't noticed, or hadn't cared enough to seek her out. _The old Hermione Granger wouldn't have sat idly by and let herself be pushed aside,_ she thinks bitterly. But then again, that Hermione was no more, dead, along with Harry and Ron and the rest of the people who had fought in the war. She had lost too much and been loved too little, and she needed to protect herself now. If Malfoy didn't want her, that was fine. She knew her place– she was Scorpius' governess, and nothing more.

Astoria had brought her mother along to the Manor, seemingly at Malfoy's insistence, along with a group of her own elves– apparently in lieu of a personal maid, Hermione frowned. Although Astoria herself had been more or less _pleasant_ –besides the occasional passive-aggressive digs– her mother was a different story.

The first time Astoria's mother had set eyes upon her, she had made the most repulsed face, as if she had never seen such a revolting creature before. "What is she doing here?" she had asked Malfoy politely, with more than a touch of acidity to her voice. She knew who Hermione was, of course –the whole of wizarding society knew who she was– but the look that she sent her only reminded Hermione of the fact that these purebloods, the _elites_ , would never see anyone of lesser birth as anything more than the vermin beneath their shoes.

"She is Scorpius' governess," he'd replied calmly, without even casting a glance at her, and she'd recoiled slightly, stung. Somehow, his casual dismissal had cut her more deeply than the unsubtle comments Astoria's mother had made.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," Mrs. Greengrass had twittered, giving Hermione a malicious smirk hidden behind polite, carefully crafted smiles.

"She is clever," he'd pointed out, as if that erased all previous insults that had been thrown at her. She'd fumed. Being complimented was one thing, yes, but it did not excuse all the transgressions made against her or her character. They didn't know what it was like, to lose everything. _They didn't know._

"We had a governess," Astoria cut in, before Hermione could say something that she'd ultimately regret. "She was an utter bore, wasn't she, Mother?" She cast a glance towards Mrs. Greengrass, who was watching her daughter avidly as she nodded emphatically. _She'd agree with anything her daughter said, as long as she got the Malfoy inheritance in the end,_ Hermione observed bitterly.

"Daphne and I used to play tricks on her," she continued, laughing as her mother emitted a horrified –rather fake, in Hermione's opinion– gasp.

"–and eventually we drove her mad. We got another governess then," she shrugged, as if utterly helpless, and looked towards the blonde wizard, hoping for some sign of delight. Hermione studied him as well, taking in his stoic expression, looking for the corner of his mouth to twitch, his tell-tale appearance of amusement. There was none, and Hermione watched, astounded, as his face relaxed entirely, and a smirk appeared on his lips. _It's fake_ , she said to himself, knowing Malfoy entirely too well.

She had excused herself from the room then, murmuring some excuse about tending to Scorpius, and a small smile on her lips, unaware of the way pale grey eyes followed her exit.

* * *

They were planning on singing. Astoria had taken one look at the grand piano in the parlor, after dinner, and had exclaimed in delight, examining the instrument and touching the keys lightly. "May I play?" she'd asked, turning to glance at Draco and sitting down without waiting for his response.

He'd nodded, face impassive, and stood behind her as she started to play a simple etude. "Wonderful," her mother had clapped enthusiastically, excessively proud of her youngest daughter. "Don't you agree, Mr. Malfoy?"

Hermione nearly groaned at the woman's forwardness. "Yes," he'd said slowly, "quite."

"Would you like to sing with me, Mr. Malfoy?" Astoria had leaned forward, draping her arms across the piano's top, and tilted her head at the blond.

"Yes, yes, what a wonderful idea," Mrs. Greengrass gushed. "You simply must. I remember you having a lovely voice as a boy– it must be even better now," and she cast Hermione a surreptitious glance, as if taunting her with the knowledge that the Astoria and Draco had known each other since childhood.

She'd said nothing, of course –after all, what could she say?– and simply smiled blandly back at the woman.

Malfoy had reluctantly agreed, settling himself slightly to the side of Astoria, and waited for her to begin the opening chords. Hermione waited, with baited breath, for Malfoy to sing –really, who would've thought _Malfoy_ , prat extraordinaire, singing– she didn't care about Astoria's perfect voice.

He didn't disappoint. His voice was surprisingly low and mellow, a stark contrast from the dry and collected tone he typically spoke with. Hermione wasn't _swept away_ , or _entranced_ by his singing, but it was clear that he had received at least some instruction or taken some lessons when he was little. _Pureblood etiquette_ , she supposed. His voice was smooth and deep, a vague reminder of the way whiskey tasted to her after a long day, burning evenly down her throat and settling comfortably somewhere behind her navel.

They continued, some simple and slow _Italian_ song, she surmised, and she allowed herself to relax, closing her eyes and enjoying the sounds of his voice and the way it curled around the rich words. She wondered briefly if Scorpius sang as well– if so, she had never heard him. She herself could carry a tune, but she was no Astoria, a far cry from the perfectly groomed, perfectly cultured, perfectly _bred_ witch that was currently smiling adoringly up at Malfoy.

She was perfect and untarnished and whole, and Hermione was nothing more than a defeated muggle-born witch with an overcapacity for thought and a tendency towards bookishness.

She sighs, tense with aggravation once more, and waits impatiently for the song to end so that she can escape.

* * *

She feels like drinking, tonight. _It's not because of Astoria,_ she thinks to herself, _not because of Malfoy, either._ It's just been too long since she's last had a glass, and tonight is the night for her to drown her sorrows, her memories, in alcohol. She needs a break, desperately.

She rummages through the kitchen, casting a _muffliato_ over the entire area to mute the sound of clanking pots and pans. "Here," she breathes in triumph, holding up a significantly large bottle of red wine. Summoning a crystal glass to her hand, she pours herself a generous amount and then thinks, _what the hell_ , before topping it off.

She takes a large gulp, swallowing the acidic but cool liquid down, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, absentmindedly glancing over the red stains that streak across her skin. Taking another fortifying sip before placing the glass down, she rests both her elbows on the granite counter, the stone ice-cold against her skin, and hangs her head, watching as her hair slowly slips off her shoulders and hangs limply around her face. It's silent within the manor, and Hermione relishes it, relishes the quiet and the feeling of the ache deep inside her. It sounds masochistic, but she _wants_ to hurt, in order to escape the numbness. Closing her eyes and gritting her teeth, her nails dig into her palm and she trembles, feeling her magic course through her, feeling that _ache_ spreading through her body.

She turns too quickly and knocks over her glass, watching as it slowly fractures and splinters into millions of little shards – _like my sanity_ , she thinks– and sinks down to the floor, drawing out her wand. "God, I haven't done that since I was five," and suddenly she laughs and the laughs turn quickly into hiccoughing giggles and then she's crying, gasping and heaving, shudders wracking her body. That's how he finds her– curled up and forlorn in the corner with shattered glass next to her, her wine spilled and spreading along the marbled floor. He freezes, transfixed by the sight of red red _red_ , and suddenly he can't breathe and he's hearing her _scream_ and beg and and sob and somehow he's managed to stumble over to her and cradle her small frame in his embrace and choke out apologies, hands frantically running over her to make sure she's okay.

 _How embarrassing,_ she thinks. To be caught this way, drinking, a mess in front of the sophisticated and elegant Draco Malfoy. For him to realize that Hermione Granger, war heroine and savior of the wizarding world, one third of the Golden Trio and the brains of the operation, was fallible. Was human. Maybe she'd never wanted him to think of her as human. Maybe she'd secretly hoped, desired, wished that he would place her on that familiar pedestal and worship her, like the rest of wizarding society did. At least then she could be better than _Astoria_ , the pureblooded, beautiful, clever witch that was Malfoy's equal in every way.

But his hands are running over her back soothingly, wiping traces of her tears away, and she lets herself forget Astoria, forget everything except for _him,_ and the ache within her swells and threatens to drown her.

* * *

It was days before she saw him again. She paused on the staircase, holding a tray of cookies she had brought to Scorpius' room, and waited as Astoria's mother and various house-elves passed by, head bowed to detract attention from herself. "Excuse me," she heard a murmur behind her, and she stepped out of the way, startled, as Astoria herself emerged from the hallway behind her –from Malfoy's room, she noticed and ignored the pang in her chest at the thought–and a pair of well-shined shoes came into view beside her, and she felt, more than heard, Astoria reach out a slender hand to grasp at the man now next to her.

"Astoria," and his voice was a soothing rumble in her ear, "you look lovely, as always."

Hermione stared at her feet, counting the squares in the patterned carpet. "Thank you," and Hermione imagined that the stunning witch dipped her head gracefully –hair shining like a dark halo around her face– perhaps even dropping into a delicate curtsy. Malfoy moved fully past her, leading Astoria to the stairs, and Hermione's eyes were helplessly drawn to the way her arm was interlocked with Malfoy's– a perfect fit, she mused involuntarily.

"All of these old manors have a grey lady," Astoria continued as they started walking away, leaving Hermione behind them, "and I think I've just found yours."

She says nothing as the two walk away, still staring at the carpet, and for once, her brain is silent, and she can hear nothing but the rush of blood from her heart.

* * *

a/n: I'm sorry this was more than a week in coming! I've been awfully busy and I got stuck on one scene in this chapter so I had to take a little break. The next chapter will be up hopefully within the next two weeks or so.


	6. The Revelation

March 2, 2016

"Granger," his voice echoes from the doorway, and she turns, startled. Her hands drop from the curtain she's holding back, and fold primly at her waist. She gives him an expectant look, waiting for his instruction, and watches as his eyes slowly travel from her hands to meet her gaze. "We –Astoria and I– are going to the new exhibit at the Louvre."

"I fail to see what that has to do with me, Malfoy," she returns dryly, slightly taken aback at her own audacity.

He appraises her, eyebrow tilting up in that condescending manner she knows so well. "We'd like Scorpius to come with us as well," he says slowly.

"And by 'we', do you mean yourself?" she's turned back around and is now busying herself with straightening the various items on her desk. "Besides, I still don't understand why you are expressly informing me of your plans."

"Well, Scorpius is coming with us, so by extension, you will be as well," he put forth simply, as if it were the most natural and logical conclusion to come to.

She sighed, pausing in her tidying once more.

"I highly doubt Astoria will want me there," she warned. "Being the 'grey lady', and all," she rolls her eyes for extra effect.

He winces slightly, but otherwise completely ignores her statement and says, "It'll be educational for Scorpius, and besides, I'm beginning to feel a little claustrophobic, trapped in the Manor."

"Claustrophobic?" she echoed. "You do realize that the Manor is huge, right? I've been here for months, and I don't even think I've been to nor seen half the rooms."

He shrugs. "It's a matter of opinion, Granger. You have to remember that I grew up in this house; I've spent a _lifetime_ in this house." His eyes momentarily darken and she stifles a shudder at the intensity behind it. Clearing his throat, he continues, "Besides, you do need to get out sometime. You've been here for months, like you've said, and you haven't left the grounds even once."

She faltered. It wasn't that she was _afraid_ , necessarily, of the outside world, of society, but rather that she had gotten used to being sheltered at the Manor, of hiding away and pretending to ignore the revolutions of the world around her. She pushed forward, relentless in her determination to hide the truth from him. "I _really_ don't think Astoria will enjoy my presence, Malfoy," she repeats instead.

"That's her problem," he shrugs, and runs a hand through his blond hair; the picture of utter apathy.

"She's your guest," she says, slightly shocked by his indifference; _amusing_ , actually, she thinks.

He scoffs. "Sure, but you're my _employee_ ," he offered. She smiles slightly, stepping forward and crossing her arms.

"That really the best description you have for me?" she questions, a teasing twist to her lips.

Draco shrugs and gives her an enigmatic smile. "Sure," he replies easily, still leaning against the doorway. "It's appropriate."

"Well, since you're all about propriety," she walks towards him and enjoying the way he tensed imperceptibly, purposefully allowing her hair to brush against his arm as she slips through the doorway he is still leaning on, "you'd better get everyone ready, if you want to make the exhibition in time. International portkeys need at least a couple of hours to get prepared, you know."

"Not if you're a Malfoy, they don't," he counters, grinning cheekily at her.

She groans. _Of bloody course_.

* * *

 _Paris is as lovely as I remember_ , she thinks, as they make their way towards the famed Louvre Pyramid, a distinctly modern glass and metal sculpture harshly juxtaposed against the older, more traditional architecture of the museum. _The last time I was here was before the war,_ she mused, _or at least, before the reality of the war set in._

"This is the Louvre Pyramid," she vaguely heard from her blond companion as he bent down towards his equally blond son and pointed towards the construction.

"It's so shiny, Daddy," Scorp said, entranced by the sights around him. His head swiveled back and forth as he tried to take in everything all at once.

"Slow down, Scorp," she laughs, "you're going to get dizzy, doing that. Besides, we have all day to explore." She snuck a look at Malfoy to confirm this, not having actually known if they were to spend the entire day at the Louvre, but chancing it regardless. At his nod, she continued, "It's going to be a lot of fun, and you'll see so many pieces of art by famous people."

"Are they all Muggles?" Astoria interjected, "I've never seen anything made by Muggles before."

Malfoy threw her a look – _play nice–_ it said, and Hermione breathed deeply, having briefly forgotten that the brunette witch had come along. "Yes," she confirmed, "the Louvre is dedicated completely to Muggle works."

"I like Muggles," Scorp said randomly, defusing the tension simmering in the air, "they're nice."

She laughed slightly and nodded. "You're right, Scorp, they are nice."

* * *

Astoria and Malfoy had been inseparable the entire time they had been at the Louvre. She had latched onto him when they had taken the Portkey, and hadn't let go since. Hermione wasn't jealous, she knew her place as Scorpius' governess, but it irritated her to no end to see that Scorpius was receiving less of his father's attention because of Astoria.

She glared at their interlinked hands.

The glare intensified as she saw Astoria titter at some painting they were passing- _Delacroix,_ she absently noted– and lean over to whisper something into Malfoy's ear.

"Miss Hermy," she heard a little voice at her side, "you're squeezing my hand too hard."

Blinking from her stupor, she released Scorpius' hand quickly and bent down, bestowing kisses on his fingertips. "I'm sorry Scorp," she apologized, "I got a little distracted." He giggled and pressed his hand to her face.

"It's okay, it didn't hurt too much," he told her emphatically, wide grey eyes looking directly into her own.

She scooped Scorp into her arms as she stood up, doing a funny half-hop as she tried desperately to prevent her purse from slipping off her arm. "Scorpius," she finally said desperately, "do you think you can reach my purse?"

He twisted in her grip and grabbed for the handles, pulling the purse up and resting it securely back onto her shoulder. "All done," he announced proudly.

"Thank you," she kissed his sweet-smelling hair. "I owe you a treat. You've been so good today," she smiled as he turned around quickly to face her.

"Ice cream?" he asked hopefully.

She laughed. "If that's what you really want, Scorp. But wait until you get to the gift shop, because they have some pretty cool things in there that you might like."

Malfoy turned to check on Hermione and Scorpius and froze in his tracks when he saw her kiss his son's head. Astoria wrinkled her nose at the sight of them. "Don't you think that she's too affectionate with him? After all, she's not his mother. She shouldn't pretend to act like it."

"She's good with him," he returned evenly. "Scorpius likes her, in any case."

"But still," she pouts and twirls a piece of hair around her finger. "It's not her place."

He shrugs, if not a little disinterestedly, and continues to watch as Scorpius says something to Hermione that makes her laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners and her expression so free, so _unguarded_. "They're good for each other," he finally murmurs, not waiting to see the look on Astoria's pretty face.

* * *

"Miss Hermy," he tugged at the hem of her dress, and Hermione bent down to look at the little blond boy.

"Yes, Scorp?" she smiled at him, ruffling his hair affectionately and straightening out his clothes.

"I'm bored," he whined, and Hermione cringed, darting a look at Malfoy and Astoria, who had stopped at the commotion and were now staring at them curiously.

"Scorp," she tried to be reassuring, "this is good for you. Don't you want to see the mummies? Look, they're really rather interesting." She picked him up and walked over to the glass case, pointing at the sarcophagus inside. "You know there's a real person in there?"

Scorpius stared at the wrapped body, eyes wide, before looking back at Hermione. "Really?" and she breathed a sigh in relief at his eager tone.

"Yes," she nodded, "this is how the Egyptians used to bury their people."

He tilted his head at her and frowned. "Did they do it with magic?"

"No, these are muggles," Hermione informed him, "but only very important people, like kings, were special enough to be buried and preserved like this."

"Oh," he nodded sagely, as if he understood exactly what she was talking about and was now the expert on Egyptian burial rites.

"Want to see more? I can tell you more about them and find some books and pictures for you to see once we get home."

"That sounds like an awful amount of information for a four-year old," Malfoy came up beside her, Astoria trailing dutifully on his arm.

"He's enjoying it," she said defensively, turning to watch Scorpius press his nose up against the glass casing. "And look, he's stopped whining, so–"

"–that is true," he laughed. "You're turning him into a pretentious little bookworm, aren't you?"

She sniffed indignantly, "I am not. Besides, there is _nothing_ wrong with wanting to learn and read." From the corner of her eye, she caught Astoria discreetly hide a scoff.

"Nothing wrong for someone who doesn't want to marry well, yes," she muttered, but Hermione had heard regardless.

She rolled her eyes. "Excuse me," she rounded on the taller witch, "I saved the wizarding world. I took down Voldemort with Harry and Ron, and what did you do? You hid. Like a coward." Her face scrunches up in distaste, "You did _nothing._ "

Astoria spits back venomously, "Sure, the brilliant Hermione Granger might have done all that, but look at where you are now. A poor governess, living off of the generosity of someone you previously loathed. And you know what you're doing right now, Hermione? You're hiding. Just like _I_ did."

There are people watching them curiously now, and Hermione notices them all, catching their gazes awkwardly and then glancing away. She steps back, stunned, feeling Astoria's words like a physical knife to her chest – _you're hiding, just like I did_ – taking one faltering step after another, until she has turned completely, rushing around the corner and disapparating in a swirl of navy robes.

* * *

She was _furious._ Hermione had been called a lot of names –most of them from one Rita Skeeter– but she had never, _never_ , been called a coward. She was sorted into Gryffindor, for Merlin's sake. Gryffindors were brave and pure and courageous and loyal, and although the Sorting Hat had been unable to decide exactly which house to put her in, Hermione had made up her mind well before then, concluding that Gryffindor was "the best house" and that she'd quite like to be sorted _there._

And yet, she _was_ a coward. What else could explain her decision to join Malfoy in his manor, taking up an occupation as his son's _governess?_ It was a horrid waste of her talents, truth be told. She pushed the nagging thought aside, telling herself with quiet conviction that she wasn't a coward, never had been, and never would be.

After three cups of hot tea and an hour of silent contemplation in the massive tub her ensuite bathroom provided, she calmed down. It wasn't until she had settled down in the Malfoy library with a new book that she realized that she felt a bit more _normal_. She had regained some of her spirit, her old fire, without the memories whispering at the edges of her consciousness.

She supposed she could thank Astoria for that, although she'd rather gouge out her own eyes, _Oedipus style_ , than make such a gesture. Although she was slightly embarrassed by her emotional outburst, she wasn't repentant in the least. The only true thing she regretted was leaving Scorpius there alone, with Malfoy and his girlfriend, still missing the treat she had promised him.

Hopefully he wasn't too upset with her –she didn't dare hope that Scorpius would understand the reasoning behind her sudden departure; he was too young.

She sighed, finger sweeping along the edge of the book she was holding, a slow ache deep in her bones, and looked out the window towards the grey sky, thinking.

* * *

a/n: honestly not too in love with this chapter, but it's here regardless (and for once, edited!). the next chapter won't be up for quite awhile, because this upcoming month is super busy for me (five concerts in the next couple weeks, and I'll be out of the country as well), so I'm sorry about that. as always, reviews are very welcome.


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